


In a Heartbeat

by Dorothy Marley (dmarley)



Category: Law & Order
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-19
Updated: 1998-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-02 21:19:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dmarley/pseuds/Dorothy%20Marley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike Logan's life flashes before his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a Heartbeat

So it's true. It really does flash before your eyes. But not the way you'd think.

I'd always imagined that it'd be something like an old flashback episode on a television show, a warm, fuzzy-screened parade of all the best moments. Dad throwing a baseball. The first girlfriend. The first kiss. Getting that gold badge. Making love. All the memories you'd want to savor.

But it isn't like that. Not by a long shot. No, what happens is that it all comes at once, in one gigantic squirt of raw information, every moment jammed in tight with all the others, the whole damn mess dumped into your forebrain without so much as a single, "Hey, This Is Your Life." And it all churns in there for a single terrifying nanosecond, just to sort it all out into one simple question: "So, was it worth it?"

And that's before the bullet even hits.

Okay, let's tally it up. Wives to cry over my coffin: Zero. Ex-wives to fight over my estate: Also zero. Children to carry on my boyish good looks and stellar wit: That'd be zero, too. Wait. This is getting depressing.

On the up side, there's surely at least a few dozen who'll weep at the wake. Friends, family, colleagues . . . Then I think of one who'll be weeping more than anyone, and it's appropriate that the thought of that one person's grief coincides with the ripping of the bullet into my chest.

It takes my breath away, which is good because it's harder to scream when you can't breathe. For an eternal second, my world becomes nothing but white-hot, tearing pain. It's like nothing I've ever experienced in my life. It's like . . . like . . .

It's exactly like the first time the old lady whacked me so hard that I took a header down the back stairs, like that moment when I finally landed at the bottom and realized that I was still alive, because nothing could hurt that much if you were dead. The pain of those two cracked ribs was nothing compared to this, but that was only because I'd never had the chance to experience anything worse. Yet. It's the shock of it. You get hurt enough in the same way, you get used to what it feels like, you know what to expect. But there's never anything to prepare you for the first time. The first bloody nose, the first black eye. The first bullet. You can't know. And you don't, until it happens.

Oh, good. I seem to have blacked out. At least momentarily. The pain is gone, anyway. But I feel strange, weightless . . . like I'm floating in the air, free falling. Maybe that's because I am falling. Now _this_ is ridiculous. A bullet is such a tiny little thing, so small, almost fragile. I've picked them up delicately between my thumb and forefinger, careful not to damage the soft metal. So how the hell can a few pathetic ounces of lead still feel like a Mack truck smacking into me? And now the pain is back.

It's not supposed to be me. It's my partners who are supposed to eat the bullets, who are supposed to die. They're the ones who get targeted by half-assed hitmen, who walk into a deal with a psycho and get plugged for their trouble. There's Phil, shaking in my arms, clutching my hand so hard he's leaving bruises, gasping that he can't breathe, can't breathe . . . I know what it feels like now, Phil. And Max, falling down in the street with a bullet in his back, the killer stepping up to finish the job. I wasn't there, I didn't see it. But I woke up from the dream of it, night after night, for months. I just wish I could wake up from this one.

Oh, here's a face I haven't seen in a while. Rick Newhouse. Hey, Ricky. Rick's an old pal, one of my top ten faces to float up in the middle of the night, when I've run out of other nightmares. Rick, pinned down in a dirty alley, fired at from both sides while he waited for backup that never came. Left to die by four other members of New York's Finest. Took me a long time to quit seeing my face in place of his. There but for the grace of God, Mikey.

I think I passed out again. Maybe. Wherever I was, it was someplace that didn't hurt. I still can't breathe, no matter how hard I try. I want to. I want to breathe, so I can scream, so I can tell someone that I'm here, that I'm hurting, and for the love of God to please help me . . .

Where the hell is Lennie? The only one of my partners lucky enough to pass unscathed, and the bastard isn't even here to drag my sorry dead ass off the street. Great. I finally break the curse, and I get to die alone. Like Billy. Billy-boy Marino. Another dead cop. Another dead friend. Only difference is, Billy pulled the trigger himself. Although, in retrospect, walking down into this goddamn blind alley wasn't much different than sticking the gun in my own chest.

There's a thought. Suicide. Never have understood why it's against the law. Not that I've ever thought about it, myself. Okay, once. When I was a kid. When--No. Let's _not_ go there.

Okay. So there's actually something more painful to think about than this white-hot bullet in my chest. Hey, this is _my_ flashback, right? Don't I get any say in this?

Apparently not.

She smacked me for getting home late, that day. And I started to cry. I never cried when she hit me. And just for a second, it stopped her. God, if she'd said one thing, anything, I would have told her what happened, would have told her what Father Joe had done to me. But then she had me by the ear and she marched me to my room and shut me in. That's when I thought about it. Lying there, on my bed, hurt and aching and feeling like nothing in the world would ever be the same. I just wanted it all to stop. Well, congratulations. Twenty-five years later, you finally get your wish.

Okay. I'm tired now. Really tired. The sum total of the life of Michael Logan is evidently nothing but crap, so good-bye and good riddance . . .

Crap. Not another one. Dammit, I'm _dying_ here, okay? I can't breathe, I can't see, and the only thing I seem to be able to feel is this gaping hole in my chest, and I'd like very much for that to stop, please.

"Mike."

Wonderful. Aural hallucinations now. Am I supposed to sit up now and say, "Oh, I have something to live for after all?" Nice try. But okay. One last pathetic scene from my miserable life, and I'll let it go. Fair enough?

"Mike!"

Hey, that's Lennie's face, right above me, but he looks funny. Pale, and scared. Hey, come on, it can't be _that_ bad. He's saying my name, I can hear it, but it's not Lennie's voice, not anymore. Now it's not Lennie's face, either. Who'll it be this time? Dad, maybe? Or maybe Max? But no . . . Oh, no. I should have figured on something like this.

We're in bed. That big, king-size, pillow-strewn bed, soft sheets tossed around us, pale blue, like the eyes that are looking up at me. Beautiful blue eyes. His face is flushed, soft hair mussed, panting just a little because we're in the middle of making love. I'm looking down, drinking in the sight, so beautiful. "You're so beautiful," I say, and his hand comes up to touch my face.

"So are you. Mike, I love you."

The scream takes us all by surprise. I thought I didn't have any more breath, thought I couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. Shows what I know. But God, it hurts. I want to scream again, but I can't. I used up all the breath I had. That was low. A cheap shot below the belt, just when I was ready to pack it in. I never said it back. Never. Not in all these years. I couldn't. I tried, God knows I did, but the words never came out. I used sex to say it, answering with a touch, a kiss, making love. But I never said the words. And dammit, now I have to come back so that I can say them. I don't want to. It hurts too much. Maybe not as much as saying "I love you" over and over to someone, and never hearing them say it back, but it hurts enough.

Okay. I'm going to live now. It's the least I can do.

THE END


End file.
